


New Moons Are For New Beginnings

by JEAikman



Series: For the Strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the Strength of the Wolf is the Pack [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Werewolf d'Artagnan, prejudice against werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JEAikman/pseuds/JEAikman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The finale of my werewolf!d'Artagnan series</p><p><i> “There is a young boy, not even twenty, who thinks his dearest friends hate him, even as he slowly bleeds to death. If you really mean that – if you think </i>d'Artagnan<i> is a monster? Well, I figure that says more about you than it does about him.” With that, Porthos trudged off, following the trail of blood that d'Artagnan had left behind him. </i></p><p>Two chapters, with equal measure of angst and fluff. Happy ending though, I promise!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was beginning to worry I wouldn't get this finished before the start of season 2, but looks like I'm managing it okay. I'm working on the next chapter of this final part at the moment, and it should be finished either tonight or early tomorrow. Happy New Year, everyone! We had a very nice Hogmanay (that's the scottish word for New Year's Eve, in case you don't know) and went out to see some fireworks with a few family friends. Although in the morning yesterday I had a pretty bad reaction to a chocolate that I thought was just chocolate but actually had a nutty filling so I had to go to the doctor to get that sorted out, but other than that, it was a pretty good day. Hope everyone is doing okay and I hope you're all as excited for season 2 as I am!

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan disappeared into the darkness of the forest, his heart sinking the further he ran out of their sight, blood dripping behind him. He turned back to Aramis and Athos, and he did not like what he saw. Aramis, for his part, only looked shocked – but Athos? Athos looked completely horrified – disgusted, even. Porthos had the feeling that this was not going to go well in the slightest.

 

Aramis was the first to break the silence that seemed to last at once forever and no time at all.

“Am I going mad, or was that truly d'Artagnan just then?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Porthos nodded, his mouth set in a grim line as he looked back to the thick woods which their young friend had fled to.

“It was, and the two of you had better get your heads out of your arses and help me find him. He's hurt and alone and terrified – in no small part thanks to you pair.”

 

Athos looked at Porthos with narrowed eyes.

“You knew... about what he is?” And Porthos very much did not approve of the tone of voice that the other man used, and rounded on Athos, grabbing him by the collar. Normally he would not have been so quick to anger, but Athos was the person who d'Artagnan thought the most highly of – his disdain would be hardest for the young man to bear. Add to that the three of them were supposed to be d'Artagnan's _friends_ – the people he could count on. And if there was one thing Porthos could not stand, it was the idea of abandoning a friend.

 

“Aye – and I told him that neither of you were going to judge him for the skin he was born with.” He let out a short and bitter laugh. “I suppose I was wrong about that.”

He let go of Athos and let the man stumble back in shock. Aramis looked between the two of them and noticed that Athos still seemed unwilling to give.

 

“I had heard stories, as a boy – of creatures known as the Hounds of God. An old abbot used to tell the tales, but everyone thought him mad.” Porthos relaxed a little when it was clear that Aramis was on his side about this. “They were men-”

“and women,” Porthos corrected automatically.

“As you say, they were people who were otherwise human, but would change to seek out injustice and destroy it. I think we can see that d'Artagnan destroyed evil with extreme prejudice here.” he gestured to the bodies of the red guards who had ambushed them before continuing “He _has_ always had an acute sense of justice. Remember when he came to the garrison to tell us someone had murdered his father using Athos' name?”

“Right.” Porthos agreed. “But my question is – why are we standing around here when we should be out there looking for him?”

 

“Because he is a monster.” Athos asserted softly, in that tone he always used when he wanted his ordered followed without question. Aramis frowned, and Porthos wheeled around to glare at Athos.

“Say that again, Athos, and I swear, it's the end of our friendship. Did you think he was a monster when he curled up beside you that night when you were too drunk to look after yourself? Did you think he was a monster all of those times that he has gotten himself injured to protect you? No? I didn't think so. Don't you dare judge him for how he was born, or so help me I will punch you so hard you'll beg me to kill you. Out there-” he pointed angrily out to the woods. “There is a young boy, not even twenty, who thinks his dearest friends hate him, even as he slowly bleeds to death. If you really mean that – if you think _d'Artagnan_ is a monster? Well, I figure that says more about _you_ than it does about him.” With that, Porthos trudged off, following the trail of blood that d'Artagnan had left behind him.

 

That left Aramis and Athos to contemplate what he had said. It also left Aramis to contemplate what Athos thought – and how he might possibly have thought of d'Artagnan as a monster. Certainly the fact that d'Artagnan had turned into a frighteningly savage wolf was a factor, but there seemed to be more to it than that.

 

“You have encountered creatures of... dubious reality before then?”

“My... wife, was a creature of the night. That is what Thomas had found out. That she drained people of blood in order to live.” Aramis raised an eyebrow, somewhat judgementally.

 

“You do realise that there is a world of difference between vampires and werewolves? And from the way Porthos was talking, I would lay money on there have being one or two of them in the Court when he was living there. So if he says d'Artagnan is good – never mind what he says, actually, d'Artagnan is d'Artagnan, no matter what else he is, and he is our friend. I don't know if you noticed, Athos, but he did what he did to protect Porthos – to protect all of us, no matter what the cost to himself.” Athos' eyes widened before turning to the ground in shame. Aramis squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “Now that you've returned to your senses, are you ready to help find our young pup? Now that I think about it, it's quite an accurate description.”

They ran off in the same direction as Porthos had, praying that they would not be too late to save their friend as he had saved them.

* * *

 

Flea had caught the scent of werewolf blood in the air that night, and somehow it had seemed familiar, though not of her pack. And once she heard the howl, she found she could not rest until she found its source and gave it comfort. Leaving her pack in the care of a trusted friend for the night, she shifted and raced out into the night.

* * *

 

D'Artagnan eventually stopped running. His leg was throbbing, and he was so very tired. He didn't have the energy to run any longer, and he supposed that here was as good a place to die as any. He lay down, panting, and closed his eyes.

 

His friends had been dear to him, and to see them turn away in disgust was more than he could bear. His heart ached with the loss of them, the betrayal of his pack – of all except Porthos. Porthos was probably searching for him even now, as the others headed back to Paris, back to the garrison. The man was loyal like that, an exceptional quality in the eyes of a pack animal like d'Artagnan. But Porthos would be too late, because he could already feel himself slipping, and –

 

Wait, what was that scent?

 

It was another wolf, he knew that much, but had lost the energy to care. If they had come to finish him off, they would have an easy job of it, for he would welcome the end in his current state of mind. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.

 

Flea came upon him then, and found with a shock that she remembered where she knew this scent from. It was Porthos' friend, the one who had made his humans his pack. A dangerous choice, especially when they remained ignorant of his true self. He lay in the centre of a forest clearing, panting heavily, and Flea could see even from here that he had lost a lot of blood. She growled in frustration, but walked up to him. The boy did not even stir. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

 

She nudged him gently with her muzzle – he was still breathing, at least, and she intended to keep him that way. She found the site of the wound and licked it clean, ignoring the whines that it elicited from her patient. Her saliva helped to close it as well, and soon it was little more than a scar – but that did not solve the problem of blood loss. He would need food and water, and she could not force that into him in wolf form.

 

She caught Porthos' scent on the wind, and so she took in a breath and howled to signal their location. Soon enough, she could hear his feet crashing through the undergrowth and finally, she could see him.

 

Porthos stopped short, staring at her in surprise.

“ _Flea?”_ She rolled her eyes and gave a sharp bark, indicating with her nose to where d'Artagnan's prone form lay in the grass. Porthos stared for a frozen moment, fearing the worst, and then rushed to his friend's side. He started talking, rambling in his panic, just praying for him to _open his god-damn eyes._

“Come on, pup, don't do this – wake up. Aramis understands, he was just surprised. Athos is being stubborn, but he's Athos, and everything will be fine, come on pup. Wake up – don't you dare give up. Not now. Not after everything we've been through together, everything you've done for us. Open your eyes. Damn you Charles, wake up!” He begged, pulling d'Artagnan into his lap so that he might be more comfortable, stroking his fur. “You gotta change back, pup, so we can look after you until you get better. Let me help you, or I swear to the sweet Virgin Mary I am going to drag you out of hell by the scruff of your neck.” There was no response, and Porthos' heart dropped into his stomach. “Come on kid, we need you. You can't just leave your pack behind – who knows what trouble we'd get in without you, right?” He asked, his voice strained with the tears he was holding back. If d'Artagnan died now... who knew what end Les Inseparables might meet?

 

* * *

 

 

D'Artagnan could hear voices – one was a voice he knew very well, and the other was the voice of the wolf he had heart before he passed out. He felt a lot better, actually – and now he could hear what the two of them were saying.

 

“-was he thinking, revealing himself like that? Of all the irresponsible-”

“He did it to save _me_ , Flea. I'd have died if it wasn't for him.”

“So why are your friends not here with you, searching for him?” she retorted. Porthos sighed, and d'Artagnan shifted in his lap.

“You awake, kid?”

“He's been awake for the past five minutes. Are you really that unobservant?” She admonished fondly. “No wonder it was so easy to steal your purse that day.” D'Artagnan opened his eyes and looked at Flea. She was very pretty, in a scruffy sort of way, and he could see in her smile why Porthos had liked her so much.

 

“Change back, pup.” She ordered, and his hackles raised of their own accord. Her eyebrow rose and she backed down. “My apologies. Touchy little alpha, aren't we? And your humans are your pack? How ridiculous. You know humans can't be trusted – Porthos excluded of course. You set yourself up for a fall there. No one to blame but yourself.”

D'Artagnan huffed, but she was right, was she not? He knew very well that he was courting trouble when those three became his – but he had hoped beyond hope that they would never know. He sighed and concentrated on shifting his form.

 

He was truly grateful for whatever magic allowed him to keep his clothes whenever he changed form. Fond of Porthos as he was, he was never comfortable naked in human form anyway. It felt too vulnerable without a layer of fur between him and the elements.

“With us now, pup?” Porthos asked, hesitantly reaching a hand to ruffle his hair. D'Artagnan leaned into the physical contact. It felt good to be surrounded by the scent that he had come to associate with safety and protection. D'Artagnan nodded, stretched, and then winced when he realised that his leg was still in the process of healing.

“Sorry for making you worry.” he apologised. “And I... I just wanted them to – you _said_ they'd understand!” He whined, and that was all the excuse Porthos needed to wrap his arms around his young friend.

“Hey now. Aramis does – or at least he's trying to. Said stuff about the Hounds of God or whatever.”

“Oh, that old fairy story” Flea snorted, and she and d'Artagnan shared a glance, and Porthos decided he had better just write it off as some sort of werewolf in-joke and leave it at that.

 

Flea, after her initial amusement at the idea, began to look thoughtful as she stared into the distance, head cocked, listening for minute sounds that Porthos had no chance of picking up on.

“If he believes that story, then all the better. He's sure not to think you a monster if he believes you to be a servant of God.”

“We are all God's servants, Mademoiselle, are we not?” Came a voice from behind them. Flea smiled – she had heard him coming and chose to let him approach them unhindered. D'Artagnan attempted to hide himself behind Porthos, but the older Musketeer, seeing that Aramis seemed in good spirits, and not in any way wanting to fight, kept him where he was.

 

“A...Aramis?” d'Artagnan asked, and the mixture of hope and genuine fear in his voice was enough to break the would-be priest's heart. Aramis crouched down next to him and reached forward to brush the tears out of his young friend's eyes.

“Have you so little faith in our friendship, d'Artagnan? Takes more than a little lycanthropy to frighten me off.” he told him with a smile, and d'Artagnan's heart lifted, and he reached out his arms. Aramis took the hint and hugged him. With Porthos' arms around his middle and Aramis' round his shoulders, their scents mixing in a wall off affection and protectiveness, he felt like things might really be okay after all.

 

But then he remembered Athos and his fear returned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Can we start again then, Athos?” He asked, and he was so earnest and hopeful that Aramis smiled indulgently and shared a glance over his head with Porthos. Athos merely smiled and reached out his own hand, shaking d'Artagnan's firmly.  
>  “I would like that, very much.” _

And as if summoned by d'Artagnan's remembering him, Athos strode out of the woods. He had been careful to keep downwind, d'Artagnan noted, which was smart if he didn't want to be noticed. Porthos and Aramis both turned, reflexively positioning themselves in front of d'Artagnan. Flea looked on with feigned disinterest. She could not interfere in a pack dispute when she did not belong to that pack. That did not mean, however, that she did not have an interest in what the fate of this particular oddball pack would be.

 

Athos drew his sword, and though Aramis readied to draw his own in defence of d'Artagnan to stop whatever madness that had taken hold of Athos, the Gascon's hand on his arm stopped him.

“If any members of a pack see the alpha as unworthy, they have the right of challenge.” d'Artagnan spoke softly, but his words rang through the night air like musket fire. Even Athos stilled. D'Artagnan stood, making sure to shake off help from his other friends – though only Aramis offered, for Porthos knew better than to mess with a werewolf's pack rules. “If you think me unworthy, Athos, all you must do is defeat me. The choice of weapon is yours.” He said, staring down the man who had been a dear friend and brother to him, who was now levelling a sword at his breast.

 

Aramis exclaimed in protest, but Porthos and Flea each held an arm.

“It may seem harsh to you,” she told him gently, “but it is our way, and has been so for centuries.” He stared between her and where his two friends stood, ready to fight each other to the death. Flea took pity on him. “But fear not. Your Athos wavers. The right words from d'Artagnan and his heart will be moved to gentleness, and I cannot imagine that he would incur the alpha's wrath for his actions against him, seeing as none of you bar Porthos knew you belonged to a pack at all.” She whispered in his ear, and the tearing anguish in his heart ebbed slightly, though it rose up again as he watched them. Neither of them looked in his mind to be anything other than completely serious.

 

Porthos gripped his arm, and that familiar contact did steady him slightly. In this world that seemed to be content to throw him surprises and shocks and knock the reason out of everyone around him, at least Porthos was always standing there beside him, steady as a mountain.

“Just watch. I think Flea might be right” He said, and because Porthos was always right about these things, and because he so desperately wanted it to be true, Aramis believed him.

 

D'Artagnan watched Athos carefully. The other man had not said a single word yet, and d'Artagnan did not know why. What was he looking for, when he stared so intently at his face?

“State your intent, Athos. Do you intend to fight me? Do you mean to kill me?” He asked. Athos' eyes widened, and then narrowed, as if he had not truly thought about how it would end, but was resolving himself now to answer anyway.

“I do.” That stung more than d'Artagnan cared to admit. Here was a man that d'Artagnan had looked up to – that he had defended with his life, time after time – and now that same man sought to end his life. After all they had been through together, did their friendship truly mean so little to him?

“Why?” He asked, willing his voice to sound cold and detatched, though he was ready to cry. An alpha could not afford to show weakness to a challenger.

“You aren't human. You're a monster.” The words were like poison to d'Artagnan, but he refused to let it show on his face.

 

Porthos was getting riled up, but it was Aramis' turn to stop him from rushing forward.

“Don't. D'Artagnan can speak on his own behalf. He doesn't need us for that. Have faith, Porthos.” Porthos grumbled and folded his arms, keeping his eyes sharply on Athos and d'Artagnan, his gaze dark and worried. Aramis couldn't blame him.

 

For his part, d'Artagnan looked cool and collected even under Athos' sharp gaze. He merely smiled. It was not a particularly nice smile, it was wolfish and full of danger, and Flea had to stifle her laughter.

“That Athos has gone and done it now. You'll see just how dangerous werewolves are when you insult them.” She whispered conspiratorially to Aramis, and he felt oddly comforted by her running commentary. It made what he was witnessing feel a little less threatening at any rate.

 

“This isn't about me at all, is it?” d'Artagnan laughed. “It's about _her_. It always is, with you, isn't it? Anne this and Milady that. Oh poor Athos who lost his heart to the evil vampire seductress. Well here's news for you, Athos. Werewolves don't drink people's blood, and we don't change anyone unless they want us too. And thirdly, the only time we kill is to defend what is ours. If you ever, even in your mind, compare me to her again, I swear, I will lock you in a wine cellar with only empty barrels, and you will be stuck with only the smell of wine and never a drop to drink.” Athos blinked, and for a bare moment, looked like he was going to laugh at the absurdity of the threat, before regaining his grip on his composure. D'Artagnan though, his other friends could tell, was by no means jesting.

 

“And Athos, when I say I defend what is mine, I mean my pack, and that is you, Aramis and Porthos – my _brothers._ ” he stressed the last word very noticeably. “So if you think yourself ready to have a brother's blood on your hands once again, then strike me down.” He opened his arms, as if welcoming the strike which would fell him. Flea was frowning, for she did not understand why d'Artagnan would say such a thing, but to Aramis, it was obvious.

“That was cruel of him, but it might be just the thing to snap Athos out of this madness.” He whispered to Porthos, though he was sure Flea had heard him as well. Porthos nodded.

“Aye, now hush and see if it works or not.”

 

Athos had not struck, and was instead staring at d'Artagnan as if he had just been shot in the gut, before staring at his sword in horror and throwing it to the ground.

“No. I can't. Not you too. I can't.” He fell to his knees. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. _D'Artagnan!_ How can I ever have thought such things? You who have saved me from myself more times than I can count – who has filled the hole Thomas's death has left in my heart. How can I have thought to raise my hand against you? I beg your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it.” He spoke with the voice of deep regret, and it did not take d'Artagnan's werewolf nose to determine the honesty of his words. He walked towards Athos and raised his head with a hand under his chin.

“I forgive you, my brother.” He said with a smile, and when Athos allowed him to assist him to his feet, Porthos and Aramis approached, Flea lingering behind.

 

“I still think you're an idiot.” Porthos told d'Artagnan, “And you, I'm still plenty angry at.” he said, pointing to Athos. “But I reckon we should all just be glad this didn't end any worse and leave the rest of it until we get back to the garrison. Though I don't know how we're going to explain this to Treville.” He sighed, thinking of how the Red Guards that had been the cause of this whole mess, torn up by a very large wolf.

“Oh, no need.” D'Artagnan assured, who, with all of his energy gone, was using Aramis as part-pillow, part-crutch. “Treville's always known. He's an old family friend. He'll figure something out to explain it. He's good at that. Had to help dad make excuses for mum on a couple of occasions.” His sheepish smile was every bit embarrassed Gascon farmboy, so much so that Athos deeply regretted that he had ever managed to doubt that d'Artagnan was anything apart from himself.

“All the better then,” he said, too tired to even be surprised by the fact that Treville had already known of d'Artagnan's lycanthropy, “because, though it may only be fatigue hindering me, I cannot for the life of me think of anything plausible.” He himself was nearly falling over, and Porthos grudgingly supported him. He knew he wasn't forgiven yet, and nor did he expect to be for a long while, but he would do everything he could to make amends.

 

“Well, this has been... the most interesting night I've had in a while, I'll admit”, Flea said from behind them. “But I have a pack of my own to be getting back to. Take care of yours, pup. And if you ever get tired of them, you have my blessing to join us.” D'Artagnan smiled, and decided that it was impossible not to like Flea, even if she was currently picking Athos' pocket.

“Thank you. And if you ever want to run on a moonless night, let me know. I don't get to stretch my legs enough, and I'd be glad of the company.” he assured her, and they shared a smile before she turned away.

“Porthos, you know you're always welcome to walk among the thieves and the whores any time you want.” She told him before kissing him on the cheek and darting into the thick of the forest.

 

* * *

 

“She didn't pick my pocket, did she?” Porthos asked after a while, his hand going reflexively to where he kept his purse.

“Not you. Athos.” D'Artagnan told him cheerily.

“Why didn't you say anything, you little scamp?” Athos asked.

“Revenge.” The Gascon grinned widely, and Aramis was glad to see the rest of his friends settle into something resembling normalcy.

“Not to spoil your fun, whelp, but we needed that, if we were going to sleep in an inn tonight.” he admonished. D'Artagnan just shrugged, since there wasn't much they could do about it now, as Flea was probably halfway back to Paris now.

“Now,” Porthos began. “That ain't quite true, seeing as there's some folks who don't exactly have much use for money any more”

“Are you suggesting that we rob dead men?”

“Dead Red Guards, so it's more like dead rats than dead men.” That startled a laugh out of both Athos and d'Artagnan. They met each other's eyes, and d'Artagnan reached out a hand.

“Can we start again then, Athos?” He asked, and he was so earnest and hopeful that Aramis smiled indulgently and shared a glance over his head with Porthos. Athos merely smiled and reached out his own hand, shaking d'Artagnan's firmly.

“I would like that, very much.”

 

There was a moment of quiet amongst the group, in which they just silently rejoiced in the company of the others and their reconciliation. What eventually broke the silence was d'Artagnan's stomach, which protested at being neglected for so long.

“I believe something was said about finding an inn?” He asked, all eagerness and hunger. Porthos rolled his eyes and reached over and gently punched his shoulder.

“Insolent pup.” He teased, and d'Artagnan made a show of pretending to bite him, which started the others laughing, and he was so very glad that his brothers knew who he was now, and he knew that, even if some had taken a bit more work than others, all of them accepted all that it entailed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to keep them all safe.

 

Well, most of all he wanted to eat until his stomach burst and sleep for about a month or so, but protecting his brothers forever was a close runner-up to those needs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, it ends at last. I promised it would have a happy ending, right? _And_ I managed to finish it before series two! I hope you've all enjoyed reading this series as much as I have enjoyed writing it. And who knows, I might eventually write more in this 'verse.


End file.
